What the Living Know
by violetlerdyn
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was dead and John was afraid to follow him, this time.


Ubeta'd. Not brit-picked. Sorry guys if I make mistakes. :/_  
_

I do not own any of these characters or BBC Sherlock. This is a work of fan fiction.

I also do not own the poem quoted here, "In the Deep Museum" by Anne Sexton.

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_"And yet, I know, I'm here. What place is this?_  
_ Cold and queer, I sting with life. I lied._  
_ Yes, I lied. Or else in some damned cowardice_  
_ my body would not give me up."_

When anyone asked him the question, he would always reply with the same answer.

"I'm fine."

It stayed latched onto his tongue and it was almost certainly a lie. At first, he was confused as to what he felt about everything. There was a long stretch of time where he felt absolutely nothing. It would claw inside of him and he would let it because it was numbing. It was better than feeling everything. Better then the scorch of his soul against his body as though it knew that it did not need to be there anymore because what was the bloody point.

But now he was just afraid. He followed the man everywhere when he was alive. For God's sake, the man had saved him from his grey bedsit and walks through rainy London days. He'd saved him from the gun that rested in his bedside drawer and reminded him that he could use it to protect instead of using it as a way out. Sherlock Holmes was dead and John was afraid to follow him, this time.

In the beginning, he had hoped for so long that the brilliant man had survived somehow. Even though John had felt the man's wrist the day he jumped, the pulse nonexistent and skin cold, he wanted nothing more than to believe that Sherlock could survive such a fall. But this was a stage of grief, he'd learned. The hope that somehow the dead would come back to life was a miracle already three years too late for John Watson.

Yet the nagging feeling still caught in his lungs when he saw the graffiti or the posters. "Believe in Sherlock Holmes", "Moriarty was Real." People who did not even know him believed in the man, so John would believe in him for the rest of his life. He'd promised him that long ago when he'd aimed at a cabbie through a window and shot without hesitation. He'd promised when he decided that dying in that pool, with explosives attached to his chest, was better than letting a mad man like Moriarty go free to destroy his best friend. It was too bad that it happened anyway.

He knew they had so much possibility. Knew it in the way he could not help but stare at Sherlock when the man paced through the flat with brilliant ideas and deductions spilling through his lips. Knew it in the way he felt his blood surge through his veins at the end of a chase but Sherlock would turn to him and smile and he did not how his heart could have sped up more, but it did.

There were dreams where they would be sitting comfortable back at Baker Street and the telly would be blaring some late night program that he was trying to ignore for the sake of writing up a meaningless blog post. There were dreams where he would see Sherlock falling from St. Bart's with arms flailing and then crashing into the ground, a halo of red around his dark curls. There were dreams where the lights of London would scream at them as they ran, their pores soaking in the grey air.

For some reason, he woke up with dried tear tracks down his cheeks and a slow burn flickering somewhere deep and broken inside of him. If he turned his head into the pillow, it was a lot darker than staring out at the rest of the room.

There were days where Baker Street felt like a tomb. After a year away, he had to return. There was nothing he could do about the memories that collected themselves like dust on every surface. Those days, he stayed later at the surgery and did not get back until the early hours of the morning.

He would calmly stare at the dark flat, where the familiar furniture rested and looked as untouched as it did the years before. Without really thinking about it, he would make tea and stand in the light over the sink with unfocused eyes as the tea scorched down his throat.

If he didn't sleep those nights, he would sit in bed and stare at the ceiling and wondered if it hurt more to leave everything behind or to stay and watch everything fall apart.

_"I lose hips and wrists._  
_For three days, for love's sake,_  
_ I bless this other death."_

When Sherlock returns, it is a Wednesday in the middle of summer. John walks in to find him sitting against the wall, his head lolled back and hair hanging long and dripping with sweat.

"John," he says. His voice was the same deep rumble.

John stalked forward after a long moment of silence and loomed over the detective before pulling him up by the front of his t-shirt and pushing him violently into the wall. Sherlock's only reaction was to raise his hands and stare down at him with steady eyes.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" John whispered.

"If you'll let me..." Sherlock began, but John just shoved him further into the wall.

"Shut up, you bastard," John pleaded with him.

This felt like it had happened all over again. There was a burning somewhere in his chest that consumed him enough to feel it all through his arms and fingers. He realized he was crying when Sherlock reached forward with a shaking hand and attempted to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks. When his dead man became alive again, it made him feel like he was dying or like he was coming up for air after a long time underwater. He felt like he was drowning in oxygen and anger.

"Three fucking years, Sherlock," he let his grip fall slack. "I thought you were dead. I was sure you were dead. I had hoped you were alive. But-you were gone."

"I did it for you." Sherlock said. "I did it all for you."

John stepped back, unable to look the man in the eye. He took a deep breath, his heart hammering cold and hard in his chest. His miracle was granted. It was there and tangible and he could feel the strong pulse when his hands brushed against the dead man's chest.

With a clench of his fists and a tight lipped frown, he turned and walked out of Baker Street. London welcomed him like it always did, and maybe when he was ready to return, Baker Street would welcome him like it always did. Hopefully when he returned, the lights would not be out and the tea would be lukewarm and the fear in him would trickle away to nothing at all.

Maybe then, he would follow his detective back into the world. Both of them alive. Both of them; together.

_"We have kept the miracle. I will not be here."_

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Thanks for reading!


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